The Road Not Taken
by NoCleverSig
Summary: While comforting Helen, James briefly fantasizes about what might have been between them.


**Disclaimer: **Sanctuary and its characters don't belong to me. I just play with them. My words, however, are my own.  
**Season:** NA/Set ca. 1888/89  
**Author's Note: **Just a little something to get us through the dark nights until Season 3 on Oct. 15. Nod to Robert Frost for the title. And megathanks to MajorSam for her most excellent beta and additions. Thank you!

**The Road Not Taken  
(Copyright 2010, NoCleverSig)**

The crystal glasses sparkled and clinked in the soft candlelight of James Watson's dining room. James' close friends Dr. Henry Filmore, his wife Eleanor, their mutual acquaintance Mr. Thomas McKinney, and James' dearest friend and colleague Dr. Helen Magnus had gathered for a small dinner party at Watson's home. While James enjoyed the company of the Filmores, the real purpose of the evening was to introduce Helen to Thomas, a handsome and unattached young barrister in London whom Eleanor had mentioned to Watson as a possible match for his pretty but unusual colleague.

James sat at the head of the table leading the conversation and assessing the evening's events. On his left sat Dr. Filmore and his wife, upstanding and well respected in the medical community. Helen knew them, and conversation (at least with Dr. Filmore) was always engaging to her. To his right sat Mr. McKinney and Helen, an arrangement so blatantly obvious to Helen when they had first been introduced in Watson's parlor that she had nearly burst into laughter. Instead she simply smiled at James, nodding her assent. He had nodded back, both of them acknowledging Watson's growing determination for playing matchmaker. He'd been doing so since John's 'sickness' had been discovered and Druitt had disappeared, presumably shot dead by Helen's own hand nearly eight months gone.

It wasn't Watson's usual game, matchmaking, but the prevailing sadness in Helen's eyes since the revelation that John was the Ripper was something James was finding unbearable.

Dinner was delicious, the conversation stimulating. Helen and Mr. McKinney seemed to be getting along quite well. Watson smiled as he discreetly observed their interactions, sipping his after dinner port. Typically, the men would remain at the table, drink and smoke, while the women retired to the parlor for light conversation and games. Watson knew Helen would have none of that. Although it discomfited the traditional Mrs. Filmore, Watson insisted they stay together for a time and converse before retiring to the parlor as a group for cards or perhaps music, if Helen or Mrs. Filmore were so inclined.

Conversation turned to city affairs and shortly thereafter the state of crime and the police.

"I still find it abhorrent that the police never found the Ripper," McKinney stated. "It's been eight months since his last known murder, and the city remains in an uproar."

"Perhaps the old boy has died or left? We can only hope that the worst has befallen him. No human being in his right mind would do the things the Ripper did. It was more than just murder, Thomas, it was vivisection. Skilled as a surgeon, as Dr. Watson and Dr. Magnus can attest, but as disgusting as an animal. Perhaps the Devil himself rose up and took him to Hell," Dr. Filmore vented angrily, his moustache turning down.

"Henry, really," his wife admonished him. "Language!"

"Well, despite the language, Mrs. Filmore, I'm sure all of us can agree with your husband's sentiments, isn't that right Dr. Watson...Dr. Watson?"

James was too busy watching Helen to answer. At the mention of John's crimes her face had paled and her hand shook. She hid it by setting her wine glass down and placing her hands in her lap, clasping them together.

"I think," Watson said, trying to salvage the evening, "That perhaps it best we change the subject whilst in the company of ladies."

Thomas turned to Helen, finally noticing her sickly visage. "Miss Magnus, my deepest apologies. I didn't mean to raise such an alarming subject. I was not thinking clearly."

She looked up at him and smiled weakly. "No need to apologize, Mr. McKinney. It's just been a long day, and I am feeling a bit tired. If you'll excuse me, I think I'll just step into the garden for a moment for some fresh air."

The men stood as Helen got up to leave.

"Would you like me to go see to her, James? She looks ill." Filmore inquired, leaning over to speak quietly in his ear.

Watson shook his head. "Thank you, Henry, but she's my guest, I'll go check on her. I'm sure she'll be all right in a moment." He turned to Mr. McKinney and Mrs. Filmore. "Why don't you all retire to the parlor? Helen and I will join you there momentarily."

The guests left for the parlor while James retreated to the garden, worried about the state in which he might find Helen.

He found her sitting on his small bench, the moonlight illuminating her long, golden curls. He sat down gently beside her, the sweet fragrance of jasmine in the trellis behind them wafting through the cool night air.

She didn't look at him, which most likely meant she had been crying. He reached a hand out and covered hers, squeezing it gently.

"I'm so sorry, Helen," he said softly.

She shook her head, still avoiding his eyes. "It is I who am sorry, James. I didn't mean to ruin your party."

Inside, James sighed. Of course Helen would be more concerned about ruining his evening than any personal turmoil. Always thinking of others, she was. He was almost surprised that she'd let herself leave in the first place! Of all the women he'd ever known, Helen was the strongest and most obstinate, never letting negative emotions get in the way of completing whatever task was at hand, be it medical research or dinner parties. She did not like to be considered weak.

"Nonsense, my dear," he said, still holding her hand. "You've ruined nothing." He paused. "You seemed to be getting along quite handedly with Mr. McKinney?" he interjected, trying to cheer her, or at least distract her.

"He's a fine gentleman," she answered noncommittally. After a moment she turned and looked at him. The moonlight glinted off the tears in her eyes, her cheeks. James' face fell.

What a complete fool he'd been!

"I shall temper my efforts at matchmaking, Helen," he promised quietly, looking at her, his heart aching at the pain he saw in her eyes.

"I appreciate what you're trying to do, James, I do. However, I don't think I am ready yet," she answered him, her voice shaky.

"I know," he nodded.

She was beautiful. A man couldn't help but see it. When they were at Oxford, when she was with John, there was a part of him, a small part, which was jealous of him. John was his dear friend and he wanted nothing but happiness for him. But Helen? He and she shared so much in common; their intellect, their professions, their dreams, their aspirations, and now their work together at the Sanctuary. Sometimes he wondered what life would have been like if their paths had taken a different, more intimate turn instead of the route of friendship that they had ended up travelling.

Helen looked at him quizzically. "James?"

Her long blond hair was lit by the white light of the moon, casting her handsome face into soft shadows, her blue eyes into darkness. He knew how bright they could be, how deep a man could look into them and be lost. Her lips were full and lush, her skin smooth as silk. He lifted a hand to her cheek to touch that skin, holding it there, feeling her warmth.

She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, seeking his warmth in return.

When they moved, they moved together, his lips seeking hers, hers seeking his. It was an innocent kiss. As soft and sweet and tender as he knew it would be. He lifted a hand to her hair, dipping it into her thick, supple curls. Her mouth opened to his, tentatively, and he deepened the kiss, their tongues lightly touching one another's, testing, exploring, determining where the boundaries began and where they ended.

When the kiss became more passionate, more heated, a tad frenzied, James lifted his other hand and lightly squeezed her breast through her dress, her corset. He heard, felt her moan into his mouth, and he began to think how best to rid himself of his guests, tell them she had turned ill and needed to rest upstairs. And when they had gone, he would lead her to his room and undress her, gently, tenderly, softly…and make love to her in the same manner, giving her all of the attention and kindness and passion she deserved and had been deprived of.

"James" she asked again, still looking at him quizzically. "Are you all right?"

He shook himself out of his fantasy, and returned her gaze. They still sat side by side on the bench. He was still holding her hand. Only her hand.

He squeezed it.

"Yes, my dear, just lost in thoughts for a moment. My apologies."

She smiled at him. "I get lost in thoughts quite often, as you know, James. No apology is necessary." She squeezed his hand back. Then she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you. For your support, your friendship. For everything…. I couldn't have survived without you these past few months."

He nodded, afraid to say anything more. She didn't need a lover, she needed a friend. And a friend he would always be.

"Always, my dear. Always."

She smiled. "I think we've abandoned your guests long enough, do you agree?"

"Are you sure you're ready to return?" he asked, a bit breathless.

She nodded. "I am."

"Cards or music, my dear? Which do you prefer?" he asked, trying to change the subject in his mind, his heart.

"Music, if your guests will agree. Something happy. Something cheerful," she replied presenting a counterfeit smile.

"Something cheerful it will be," he said presenting his own fraudulent grin in return. James turned and looked back at the bench, the moonlight, and the jasmine as he held the door open for his dearest friend.


End file.
